The Wanderer and the New West

by Adam Bender

  “Why? Do I seem promiscuous to you?”

  He gasped. “Wait, wait, that’s not what I — I just meant you’ve got the body for — I mean you’re a fine-looking woman! You know.”

  She smiled. “I make you nervous. How cute.”

  “I ain’t nervous!” he declared a bit too loudly. He pointed dramatically at the ceiling. “No one, and I mean no one, makes Kid Hunter nervous.”

  Summoned by his airborne finger, a bartender came by to take their order. He asked for a cosmopolitan and another whiskey on the rocks, even though he hadn’t planned to have another himself. More liquid courage.

  “You call yourself Kid Hunter,” the woman said, rolling the name around her tongue. “Are you a stripper, too?”

  He grinned. “Only when the mood is right.”

  Laughing, she extended a dainty hand. “I’m Miranda.”

  “Charlie. So, I take it you found your way out of this dump?”

  “I never planned to stay. I arrived in this country poor. At first, I had to take whatever job I could get. Exotic dancing was easy to break into but so hard to keep up.”

  Miranda leaned forward, giving Charlie a salivating glimpse down her front.

  “On some nights I would meet a nice guy, say … a young man out for his bachelor’s party. He would be too shy to even touch me. I could stand clients like that. It was cute. It was the regulars who were trouble — the career gamblers and the Red Stripers. Those men are not real men.”

  The drinks arrived, and Charlie took a long sip.

  “The benefit of this line of work is that, if you are good, you make connections,” she said.

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard good things about those stripper networking meet-ups.”

  Miranda laughed and smacked him lightly on the arm. “You kid, but it is true. I made connections, which I used to get a job at the Olympia Casino as a blackjack dealer. I was good at this job, too. The cards flew in and out of my hands like a magic trick, and I had a sharp eye for spotting cheaters. After only a month, the boss moved me up from the cheap tables to the high rollers.”

  Charlie was about to say something clever when he noticed a scar on her forehead. She’d obviously tried to cover it with makeup, but when the light struck her face the right way it was visible. She saw him looking and turned away blushing.

  “What happened?” he asked, all of the previous humor drained from his voice.

  “Oh … my boss. He —” She pointed to his whiskey. “He threw a glass at me.”

  Charlie was appalled. “He what? Who is he?”

  “It does not matter.”

  He thought about the selfless way in which the Wanderer helped people he barely knew, fighting because it was the right thing to do. He put his hand on Miranda’s shoulder. “It does matter. I can help you. Just tell me his name.”

  She bent over and kissed him on the lips. When she began to move away, he pulled her back for more.

  “Well, well, Charlie! Caught yourself a real fine fish tonight!”

  The newcomer flashed a mouthful of teeth filed into sharp points. It was Cochise, the top dog of El Tiburón. He wore a muscle shirt and jeans, and kept his black hair short and spiky.

  Charlie let go of Miranda. “Sorry, baby, but I’ve got to go with this friendly fellow for a little while. It won’t take long. You planning to stay a while?”

  She licked her lips. “Depends how quick you are.”

  “I’m only quick when I want to be, baby. With girls like you? I like to take my time.”

  Cochise squeezed the Kid’s arm. He looked absolutely disgusted. “You are testing my patience.”

  “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” said Charlie, accenting the apology with a high-pitched laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see how a real man does it.”

  The hit man’s wolflike eyes cut away at his confidence. Cochise seethed, “Enjoy it while you can.”

  *

  Rosa perceived a glorious blur of lights as she ran down the Strip with Errol in close pursuit. Blackjack had been good. She’d broken even. With all the free-and-oh-so-refreshing margaritas, that was a win in her book. She wondered why she’d ever thought this place was so dangerous. Maybe there was a seedy underbelly somewhere, but here on the Strip, all she saw was life, fun, and music.

  A blast of brass called her toward a club with a green neon sign blinking Salsa! Salsa! Without asking, she pulled Errol by the wrist.

  “What are we doing?” he asked with a tipsy smile.

  “Why, dancing, of course!”

  The trumpets gave a royal welcome as they entered the warm club. Red and yellow lights washed over a mob of couples doing the salsa. The band bobbed with the music, lost in a sea of bliss. She felt her heart adjust to the tempo of the spicy beat.

  Errol looked unsure. “Do you know how to dance?”

  She smiled. “My mother taught me when I was little. But I’ve never been to a place like this. C’mon, it’s easy!”

  Soon they were in the thick of the dance floor doing the two-step. Errol leaned into her ear and whispered, “I have a secret talent.”

  She gave him a puzzled look as he shifted his hands, swung a leg back, and performed an expert turn. On the return, he held up his hand and moved her to mirror the move.

  “You can salsa!” she exclaimed, feeling warm in the cheeks as they joined palms and continued the dance. “Since when?”

  “I took classes with …”

  He cut off the sentence, but she knew who he was going to say. Frowning slightly, she said, “I’m having a lot of fun tonight, Errol.”

  He stepped forward and they locked eyes. “I’m glad you came home with me.”

  She couldn’t believe how well he cleaned up. Beneath all that stubble, it turned out Errol had smooth skin and a square jaw. She thought the chocolate suit was a nice change from all the flannel and dusty jeans, too. Something kept eating at her though. Before they’d all gone out, Errol had said this might be the last night they’d have for any fun. Tomorrow, they would make their move against Gerard, and nothing would be the same afterward.

  She asked him the question rattling around her brain. “You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?”

  As she stepped forward, Errol stepped back. “If I have to.”

  He stepped forward. and she stepped back. She reminded herself that Gerard was a bad man. He’d tried to kill her. The Wanderer should kill him. But how could she reconcile this against the peace she was trying to achieve in The New West?

  *

  A left hook crashed hard into the side of Kid Hunter’s head. He was tied to a metal chair by his arms and legs in a small, dark room. There was a sheet of black glass in front of him, but he couldn’t see through it. His only company was Cochise, and he didn’t much care for the kind of company that Cochise provided.

  Kid Hunter quipped, “Funny, I thought you’d be right-handed, being a right-hand man and all.”

  A right hook struck Charlie across the cheek.

  “Yep,” he coughed. “Definitely a lefty.”

  Truth was, he was just happy Cochise hadn’t hit him on his upper arm, which was still sore from the lone wolf attack in the mountains. It was healing up, and he didn’t want to risk opening up the wound again and ruining another of his good shirts.

  He had to believe the punishment couldn’t go on much longer. They had kept him here a while now, though he wasn’t sure how long. First, they’d left him alone with his thoughts for what felt like hours, then Cochise had come in and started punching the shit out of him. He hoped that hot girl at the club would wait for him.

  Cochise reached back for another punch, but the voice of God stopped him. “Enough.”

  The voice came from all directions and the sound was low and garbled, most likely sent through a filter. Kid Hunter stared at the black glass, behind which he guessed El Tiburón was sitting. He couldn’t say he was surprised. He’d never seen El Tiburón before, never even heard his voice on the phone. They usually communicate
d by text. Charlie knew a few other bounty hunters who had done jobs for El Tiburón. None of them had ever met him, either.

  Cochise relaxed and began to massage one of his own palms. No one spoke, so Charlie took the initiative. “Look, man, let’s just cut to the chase. You’re pissed because I didn’t kill the Wanderer.”

  El Tiburón laughed, which through the voice filter sounded halfway between a hyena and an electric can opener. “I don’t care about the Wanderer. This is about you not doing what I asked. You see, the success of my operation depends on my people doing the jobs I have hired them to do. If we get jobs and do not finish them, people will stop giving us jobs. Do you understand?”

  “I get that, I get that. And that’s why I’m resigning. I failed, right? So I won’t do another job.”

  There was a deathly silence followed by a crackle of static. “That is … not exactly how things work around here. When our bounty hunters fail, you see, they do not live to do another job.”

  *

  On the next rotation, Errol let go of Rosie’s hands, and another man caught her. He was a slimy fellow with a Hawaiian shirt and slicked-back blond hair. He carried what looked like a Breck 17 semiautomatic in his hip holster. Errol was surprised to see Rosie take the exchange in step.

  “Hey!” yelled the Wanderer, now standing by himself in the middle of the dance floor. Either the jerk didn’t hear him or had chosen to ignore him, so he grabbed him by the shoulder. “Hey, Slick!”

  “Hands off, I just want a quick turn with the señorita,” the other man said.

  Errol looked helplessly at Rosie, who shrugged back at him. To his annoyance, she didn’t seem to mind.

  “All right,” growled Errol, pointing to the bar. “I’m gonna get a drink.”

  Someone bumped into him on the way off the dance floor, and he yelled for them to get out of the way. People were giving him funny looks now, but he pushed them aside and made it out.

  “Beer — darkest one you’ve got,” Errol instructed the bartender. He had to shout to be heard over the brass band. Instead of getting the beer, the bartender spoke back. The Wanderer leaned over the bar, asking him to repeat it.

  “I said we don’t got anything dark,” the bartender said.

  “Well then, what’ve you got?”

  “Corona, Coors, Bud, and Miller Light.”

  Fucking hell. “Corona, then, and it better have a lime in it!”

  The Wanderer took the beer to a railing that overlooked the dance floor. He took a swig and wiped his mouth. Even with the lime, the beer still tasted like piss — citrus piss. He let the bottle drop to his side and stared at the mob. Part of him had hoped Rosie would make an excuse and join him at the bar, but she was still out there dancing with Slick. He tried watching the band — a big outfit featuring two trumpets, a trombone, bass guitarist, drummer, and three singers. But he couldn’t focus. The cry of the horns, which had felt so welcoming on the way into the club, now sounded like a discordant mess. The Wanderer guzzled the rest of the Corona and slapped the empty onto a nearby table.

  He cut and weaved through the dancers much more quickly than he had on his way to the bar. He grabbed Slick by the shoulder and pulled him away from his dance partner. “Think you’ve had long enough.”

  Slick’s face turned red as he smacked the Wanderer’s arm. “I told you to keep your hands off me!”

  “And I say you’ve had long enough!” Errol swung back his fist and smashed it into the dead center of Slick’s ugly mug. The dancers nearby spread out to give them space. Cursing, Slick wiped the blood off his nose. Errol saw the other man reach for his hip holster, but he got his Lassiter out quicker. “If that’s how you want to play it,” growled the Wanderer. “Why don’t we take this outside?”

  Slick gave a macho nod and headed toward an emergency exit in the back. Errol started to follow, but Rosie stopped him with a forceful hand on his chest.

  “What do you think you doing?”

  “Protecting your honor.”

  “Protecting my …” Reproachfully, she placed her hands on her hips. “Looks to me like you’re protecting your own damn honor!”

  Slick stepped through the exit, probably figuring he was right behind him. Errol looked down at the Lassiter in his left hand. He always called it the good gun, but how was he planning to use it? Go outside and have a duel with a stranger? Slick wasn’t like the other men he shot — what had his crime been?

  He holstered the revolver, but the other dancers maintained their distance. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Rosie.”

  She nodded slowly with crossed arms.

  He held out his hands in defeat. “Do you want to dance some more?”

  Rosie looked wistfully at the other couples and sighed. “I think we better go back. Charlie could probably use the company anyway.”

  *

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” exclaimed Charlie. “Okay, how about this. I don’t resign. Instead, I’ll be all like, ‘No, no, I’m sorry! Please let me keep my job!’ But then, what you do, is you just go ahead and fire me anyway! Real cold, you know? Then I still get to walk out, but you get to tell everyone how awful I am, and how satisfying it felt to give me the ax! And I’ll never even ask you for a reference! In fact, if my next employer calls you up, you get to tell them how terrible I am!”

  The voice of El Tiburón groaned mechanically. “Cochise … would you please?”

  With a coyote grin, Cochise clasped his hands together into a ball, swung back, and slammed his hands devastatingly into Kid Hunter’s belly. The force of the blow knocked him over backward and the metal chair clanged against the hard ground. Charlie tried sucking in oxygen but found he couldn’t breathe.

  “If you are done with the joking, perhaps we can make a deal,” said El Tiburón. “While I should kill you, you have always been one of my best men. In job after job, you have done the work swiftly and discretely. This fuckup, to be fair, is your first fuckup.”

  Charlie could feel himself regaining his breath. Slowly, the oxygen was getting in again. Cochise leaned over and pulled him back up with the chair.

  El Tiburón continued. “I can also understand your desire to leave this life behind. You are not the first mercenary to feel burned out, you know. Even Cochise goes on vacation.”

  The spiky-haired thug looked slightly miffed to be mentioned in this light but held his tongue.

  Charlie narrowed his eyes. “I don’t want a vacation. I want out.”

  “You will take some time off. How about … six months? And then, if you still feel the same way, you can resign. But I do not think you will.”

  Charlie didn’t believe it would be so easy, but the suspension would at least give him a little time to figure things out. Still, something didn’t smell right. “So, you’re just going to let me go?”

  “Yes, with a catch. You may have your break, but no matter what you decide, I will need one more job. You failed your last job. This means you owe me a success.”

  He had to smile. Figured. “Even if that was all right with me, I don’t have the time right now for —”

  “I don’t have this job for you yet. But one day, I will. And when I do, you will take it. You will do this job for me, and then you may go to Disney World.”

  “Sounds fun, I admit, but what if I don’t agree to these terms?”

  “You die.”

  “Right! That makes sense! Okay, I agree.”

  El Tiburón directed Cochise to untie him. The thug brought him to the exit and gave him a push out into a dark alley.

  “Hey, man, can you give me a ride back to the club?”

  Cochise pulled the door shut and was gone. Charlie heard a woman’s scream a few blocks away, followed by the crack of a rifle. With a sigh, he pulled up his wristband and called for a cab.

  *

  A river of headlights surged by Rosa and Errol on the Strip, but none of them were the limousine. She thought the desert was supposed to cool at night, but the city of Vegas seemed to
trap the heat. A drunk woman staggering down the sidewalk brushed shoulders with her, spilled some of her cocktail on the concrete, and squawked in outrage. As always, the Wanderer leaped to Rosa’s protection, and the gal moved on.

  Rosa was anxious to write her article on him and move onto something else. She wasn’t happy with how little she’d managed to write for The New West over the last week. Yes, she had a perfectly good excuse, but the readers didn’t know that. The blog might be getting a lot of traffic at the moment, but so do Internet memes. If she didn’t keep writing fresh content, the audience would vanish and move on. They would forget about her.

  Errol was staring regretfully at something on her dress. Glancing down, she noticed that some of the drink had reached her and left an orange stain on the smooth white fabric. However, this didn’t bother her. Maybe because she knew the dress wasn’t hers; it belonged to a ghost. The truth was she’d felt weird all night wearing it and couldn’t wait to change.

  She felt weighted down by Errol’s beseeching eyes, wanting something from her but not getting it. It was something she needed to talk to him about.

  *

  Charlie hadn’t really thought Miranda would wait for him, but he saw her almost as soon as he entered Roxy Rox. She’d had a few more drinks, obviously, because when she saw him she went off like a firecracker, jumping into his arms and kissing him hard on the mouth.

  “It’s good to see you, too,” he said.

  Into his ear, she whispered, “Let’s go back to my place.”

  She was all over him in the taxi. The cabbie seemed annoyed, but it didn’t bother Charlie one bit. When they reached their destination, Miranda led Charlie into a large mirrored elevator that he was astounded to find opened directly inside of her pad. She had a penthouse fitted out with a leather sofa, mahogany bookshelves, and a giant television. This girl was just full of surprises.

  “You said you used to work as a stripper?” he asked as she handed him a glass of champagne.

  “You could say I am living the American dream.”

  “Cheers to that.” They clinked glasses. “But what I was really getting at was —”